Minerva was twenty years from launch, he knew, and he wondered if he’d live long enough to see it lift off. Much depended on the development of the Russian Proton III launch vehicle, along with the size of NASA’s budget. Easier to deal with the failings of science than the whims of Congress, he mused. At the same time he wondered why he cared.
Off in the distance were the two shuttle platforms. The ship itself would still be in the assembly building, being prepped and readied by an army of technicians. Though their components were designed to be interchangeable, each craft had its own individual superstitions, a fact that the men and women who flew them knew. As did the pilots. Low’s was that he never mentioned the name of whatever shuttle he was flying until it had safely achieved booster separation.
A small superstition, quite unjustifiable in a scientifically enlightened age. Especially for a pilot like Low. On the other hand he’d survived five shuttle missions; two as commander, one a near disaster, and saw no reason to change his personal modus operandi.
Staff and visiting space buffs alike recognized him; the former staring a moment before looking away, the latter voluble to the point of rudeness. He was the hero of the Enterprise, and won’t you please sign this for my little boy/girl/niece/nephew/Aunt Clotilde, Commander Low? His casual attire was no disguise. Frequently he paused and signed, knowing even as he did so that his signature was destined for shoeboxes and dusty drawers. His reluctance always gave way to inherent courtesy.
He’d tried and failed to get out of attending the reception. Need your presence, old chap, Page and the others had insisted. You’re a reassuring influence. Good for the program. Won’t you pretty-please come? Didn’t anyone understand that he was better at navigating clouds than canapes, better at explaining equipment failure than at making small talk?
Small talk, small people. Clenching his jaws, he stepped into the meeting room.
It was door-to-derriere with mission specialists, spaceport personnel, hangers-on, would-be hangers-on, the privileged and friends of the privileged, a few captains (or at least lieutenants) of industry, and those ubiquitous high-profile journalists who were nominal friends of the space program but who would desert its cause in an instant in favor of a high-profile murder case, especially if a celebrity or two were involved. There were also several famous science-fiction writers trying hard to pick up women young enough to be their daughters, as well as more U.S. senators than one was likely to encounter outside a major committee meeting.
Feeling as out of place as a fern on the slopes of Erebus, Low made a beeline for the open bar. The crowd worked to his advantage: No one called out to him. With eyes only for busy bottles and the tip jar, the bartenders ignored him.
Thus safely ensconced in a relative haven, he shook a few hands and bestowed a few smiles. He’d been through worse, especially after the Enterprise flight. A few faces he was half glad to see: engineers, programmers, others he had worked with. The delight in their eyes when they recognized him was an embarrassment. Low wore his celebrity like a pair of two-sizes-too-small sneakers.
Each face brought back memories, not all pleasant. Memories of hard work and long days, of sacrifice mental as well as physical. Of the kind of personal, inner satisfaction a man gets from doing a job better than anyone else can. Of friendships made and lost, of laughter and violent disagreement.
Experiments, satellite repairs, spacewalks. All easy in weightlessness, weren’t they? What the public didn’t, couldn’t, know was that the less weight a man’s body has to carry, the greater the burden on the mind. In space Low became a hundred-and-eighty-pound brain. Headaches were more than inconvenient; they could prove fatal.
Better to let the mass of muscles and blood vessels and nerves and water do most of the work, he knew. That’s what he’d been doing for some time now, letting the rest of the corpus lug around a tired brain. The chimps had it right all along.
The similarity of some of those populating the meeting room to man’s nearest genetic relative was striking. He amused himself by inventing more direct comparisons. At least chimpanzees didn’t lie.
Then why was he there? He knew the answer, as did Page and the rest. Boston Low might no longer be an active participant in the space program, but that didn’t mean he wanted to see it fail, didn’t mean he wished for mankind to remain forever Earthbound. Low hoped for his brethren to reach the stars.
He just no longer particularly wanted to go there himself.
Yet here he was once again, pressing the flesh in advance of the instrumentation, doing his part. While others availed themselves of the open bar, he settled as usual for carbonated liquid sugar. From the middle of the room Borden waved at him. Low nodded in response. Ken wouldn’t violate his privacy, Low knew. His copilot thrived on the attention and would gladly gather it about himself, thereby freeing Low of the necessity to share.
During the previous weeks’ simulation they’d meshed easily, each complementing the other, a perfect pairing in the ground-based shuttle cockpit. Other than a few hellos, they’d spoken little, not out of an aversion to talk but because there was no need. Each man understood the other, knew his strengths and weaknesses. Borden knew that Low was no fun and so let him be. Low knew the same and was aware that Borden wouldn’t miss him.
He envied his copilot’s easy way with a crowd, with the fawning sycophants who hovered about the space program. Technological groupies they were, and he had no use for them. Borden flaunted the nectar of his renown and drew them off, even as Low kept his petals closed.
The important thing was that Borden didn’t need the adulation. He simply enjoyed it.
When the crowd briefly parted, he saw Cora Miles flanked by two congressmen from California and the senior senator from her home state of Texas. Talking campaign strategy, no doubt. Probably telling her that saving the world from looming catastrophe was all very well and good, but it wouldn’t guarantee election to the House. Not that it wouldn’t give her a leg up on her opponents, Low mused.
There was one man he badly wanted to meet. He was supposed to be in attendance, but so far Low hadn’t spotted him. When he finally did, there was no mistaking the individual for anyone else. The striking blue eyes beneath the protruding forehead, the chiseled features, the short blond hair and stocky build, all were instantly recognizable from the photos that graced the back covers of numerous book jackets. As if that weren’t enough, the tall glass of dark beer the man held like a conductor’s baton was conclusive.
Recognition was simultaneous and mutual. The man pushed his way through the crowd to join Low. Swapping the beer from right hand to left, he smiled without showing any teeth and extended an open palm.
“Ludger Brink, Commander Low. It is a true pleasure. Wie gehts?”
“Not too bad. What do you think of all this?”
The scientist made a face. “Publicity. Personally, I prefer the times when wealthy aristocrats underwrote pure science. Politicians have no class. But then, it is not their approval that we seek, nicht wahr? Only open checkbooks.”
Low simply smiled and raised his cola. Brink was coming along as the representative of the EEC space authority. NASA could have insisted on another one of its own, but the exigencies of good public relations demanded otherwise.
Besides, Brink was eminently qualified. Not only was he one of the world’s two or three leading experts on meteorites and asteroids, with a shelf full of books and well-respected papers on the subject to his credit, he had spent months, not days, in space, as a researcher aboard the Mir II space station. He’d done four spacewalks and his fluency in Russian would allow him to decipher any cryptic instructions that accompanied the critical explosives packages. His other specialty was extraterrestrial seismology, with particular reference to Ionian volcanism.
Appropriately then, the small bit of colorful embroidery that decorated (he front of his short-sleeved shirt was not of a crocodile or polo player, but of Mons Olympica.
Low couldn’t vouch personally for the scientist’s command of Russian, but his English was virtually flawless, with only the slightest suggestion of Teutonic tartness. According to his dossier, Brink was also conversant (if not fluent) in French, Italian and, of all things, Turkish. Equally important to Low, the man’s handshake was firm and easy. He carried himself with the kind of confidence only those who are the very best at what they do, and know it, can manage.
That suited Low just fine. He had no use on a shuttle mission for anyone who was subject to second-guessing, or who doubted his or her own abilities. Such indulgences required time. Along with air, that was the one commodity a shuttle crew did not have to spare.